


aw, rats

by badacts



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Musophobia, Partnership, Phobias, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-27 20:56:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17169257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badacts/pseuds/badacts
Summary: There’s some noise that isn’t Clint up ahead, and Bucky squints into the dark. Clint has a flashlight, the circle of light from which is bobbing back and forth across the floor and walls. Bucky’s low-light vision is pretty good - hence why he’s not carrying a flashlight himself - but all he can tell is that it’s not a robot. In his experience, they’re not that subtle.After a moment the sound gets a little louder, and the shape of it coalesces into something recognisable.“Ugh, rat,” Clint mutters, right as said rat skitters past him and then Bucky, within a few inches of Bucky’s boot.The little Winter-Soldier-processing voice in his head says,Rattus norvegicus, 9 inches. The Bucky-Barnes voice says,oh fuck.





	aw, rats

**Author's Note:**

> PUN TITLE

It’s Hawkeye’s fault, really.

That’s sort of an ongoing theme in Bucky’s life these days. He has never met anyone else so incredibly and unerringly attracted to bullshit drama - even compared to  _ Steve _ \- and, unlike Steve, Clint never even hesitates to drag other people into his mess.

It’s probably terrible that Bucky finds that a little bit comforting. It’s hard to seem like the biggest fuck-up in the room when you’re sharing that room with Clint Barton.

“This is a fucking disaster,” Bucky mutters, mostly to himself but still distinctly loud enough for Clint to hear.

“You know, you complain a lot for someone who was a mindless killing machine for like a century,” Hawkeye replies from up ahead, because tact is apparently for other people.

“Gotta make up for the years I missed,” Bucky says, instead of  _ fuck you fuck you fuck you _ . That century mellowed him. “Forgive me for not wanting to be stuck underground with you.”

“With me, in particular? Ouch. Who’s your prefered tunnel-buddy?” Clint asks. “Oh, wait, Steve. Duh.”

“Hulk,” Bucky corrects. “Instant open-air tunnel. I always thought trains should be above ground, not below it.”

Clint gives him an almost-concerned look that Bucky can only just make out. “This isn’t triggering for you, is it?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “You think I’d be dumb enough to get in a subway tunnel if I was scared of trains?”

“Okay, being triggered by something isn’t necessarily the same as being scared of something, but I’m not your therapist. Also, forgive me for thinking for a second there that the dude who died falling off a train might have some unspoken issues about trains.”

“I didn’t die,” Bucky corrects, because it annoys him when people say that. He didn’t come back from the dead, he’s been around the whole goddamn time. “And you’re right, you're not my therapist, so shut the fuck up.”

“Rude,” Clint mutters, but he does fall silent. That’s unusual for him, but maybe he’s embarrassed about the train thing. “We’re not far off. Start hoping for an easy egress point.”

They’re down here because Clint pissed off Steve enough to send him - and therefore Bucky, his current field partner - to work alongside the field agents on the ground, and then pissed off the CO enough to be sent underground to cover the underside of what is a battle with a group of robots. There’s not much chance they’ll drop below street level, which would be a blessing for most people but is annoying to Bucky. He has some pent up aggression he wouldn’t mind unleashing onto a laser-wielding robot or twelve.

There’s some noise that isn’t Clint up ahead, and Bucky squints into the dark. Clint has a flashlight, the circle of light from which is bobbing back and forth across the floor and walls. Bucky’s low-light vision is pretty good - hence why he’s not carrying a flashlight himself - but all he can tell is that it’s not a robot. In his experience, they’re not that subtle.

After a moment the sound gets a little louder, and the shape of it coalesces into something recognisable.

“Ugh, rat,” Clint mutters, right as said rat skitters past him and then Bucky, within a few inches of Bucky’s boot.

The little Winter-Soldier-processing voice in his head says,  _ Rattus norvegicus, 9 inches _ . The Bucky-Barnes voice says,  _ oh fuck _ .

He’s not proud. He freezes solid.

Clint continues on for a few metres before realising that Bucky isn’t moving. “Barnes?”

His voice doesn’t quite cover the movements Bucky can hear, little paws on metal and concrete, getting closer. Furry little bodies and sharp teeth. That is, of course, because it’s in Bucky’s head. That doesn’t mean he can shake it.

“Bucky?” Clint asks again, this time from much closer, although not inside of arm’s reach. Smart. “You’re okay.”

Bucky half-heartedly reaches up to cover his ears, and then stops himself. There’s no point.

“Hey,” Clint says, from closer again - not so smart, yet not surprising - and then reaches out with both hands to cover Bucky’s ears himself. They’re warm, and although hands in general aren’t good at blocking out sound, they do break Bucky out of his stupor a little. “What’s your status?” His voice comes over the earpiece Bucky is wearing, the doubling a more distant muttering through flesh.

“Great,” Bucky lies like a rug. He hisses when Clint jostles him. “Not much of an alternative, Hawkeye. There’s robots.”

Clint says, “Right hand.”

Bucky raises the aforementioned hand and replaces Clint’s palm over his own ear. A moment later, there’s fingers at his belt in the pocket he keeps earplugs in. Bucky submits to Clint pulling out his earpiece and inserting the earplugs with brisk easy movements.

With them in place, he can’t hear anything besides the impression of his quick-tripping heart, the rush of air into his lungs. It’s better. Not great, but better.

Clint moves so their eyes meet in the dimness, and signs,  _ Status? _ Bucky nods back. 

Clint takes him at that, pointing back over his shoulder in the direction they were heading. He signs,  _ Stay close _ , presumably because he’ll now hear anything coming long before Bucky does. It’s ironic, and not in a good way.

Bucky breathes in and then exhales in a rush, the noise a whitewash. Then he slips in at Clint’s back, and follows.

 

* * *

The embarrassment - that comes later.

They’re back on the quinjet, tired but cheerfully rowdy after an uncomplicated victory with minimal collateral damage. Well, most of them: Bucky is in his head more than usual, stuck back in that frozen moment.

He’s still - scared, sometimes. In ways that surprise him even now. He’s had enough therapy to understand that that’s normal, and that, if he was a completely catatonic wreck, he’d be entitled to that, too. Instead, he’s mostly well in the ways that matter, and he’s out here with a purpose, fear or no fear.

He gets nightmares, and he has triggers - unfamiliar male voices speaking Russian, sudden uncontrolled falling, or the texture of liquid food products - but they get him when he’s alone, or at night, or lost in crowds of strangers. 

It’s different to feel that sticky fearful moment when it counts. Usually Bucky is all professionalism on the job. Except all it took was a  _ rodent _ , and he cracked.

It’s not good enough.  _ He’s _ not good enough, and he’s always had a sneaking suspicion that that was the case, but he didn’t expect to have it proved to him like this.

So, he’s quiet. He can feel the flickering attention of the others, on him and then off again, but he can mostly ignore it. It’s Clint’s eyes that he feels more than most, because Steve had asked them when they met at the ‘jet whether everything had gone smoothly - with only a fraction of smug satisfaction - and Clint hadn’t mentioned Bucky’s fuck-up at all, and Bucky has no idea what to do with that.

When the ‘jet touches down, Steve stands and resecures the shield on his back. “Right. Debrief in ten.” Everyone groans, though Steve is predictably unmoved. “The sooner we do it, the sooner it’s over with, people. Ten minutes.”

Most of them stop via the locker room, Bucky included. He slips off his jacket - heavy kevlar in navy, not black leather (Stark had looked taken aback and then amused at the idea of leather, and then had lectured Bucky about how wearing proper bullet-proof body armour is better than looking ‘hot’ but getting gutshot, ignoring that Bucky hadn’t chosen his old gear) - but leaves his uniform pants on with an undershirt. His weapons he stows, besides the ones he always keeps on him.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, slinging his helmet into his own locker. Bucky really should have seen this coming. “Alright?”

“Fine,” Bucky replies, only slightly through his teeth. It’s not that he  _ wants  _ to tell Steve, but he can’t shake the feeling that he should, except for that  _ Clint _ didn’t, and he’s technically the senior agent - fuck it. “Debrief?”

“Sure,” Steve accepts easily, though Bucky knows well enough that it may or may not be an attempt at lulling him into a sense of security for when Steve asks the same question again later.

Bucky is walking through the conference room door when a hoodie-wearing Hawkeye bumps him and mutters, hurriedly, “Are you pissed at me?” under his breath.

His expression is so genuinely concerned that Bucky immediately replies, “No?” It’s true, anyway. He doesn’t know what he is, but it isn’t angry. Clint nods a little and then takes his seat between Widow and Falcon, leaning companionably into Natasha’s shoulder until she shoves him back.

The debrief itself goes smoothly - even the predictable bickering is kept to a minimum. It’s only a half-hour before they’re released. Most of the others head for the main kitchen to eat, but Bucky ducks into his rooms and showers to avoid the rush. Once he’s clean and dressed down in sweatpants, he collapses on his back on his half-made bed with the thought that he’ll nap for a half-hour. The next thing he knows, his stomach is waking him as it tries to devour itself. His phone, when he gropes for it amongst the blankets, says it’s after ten at night.

If not for his body demanding sustenance, he’d probably roll over and go back to sleep, but the need for calories outweighs his desire to stay in bed. Cursing himself for not at least getting a snack before his shower - his metabolism, like Steve’s, requires very regular calorie-dense meals - he digs out a clean shirt and makes for the kitchen.

The upside of it being late is that it’s empty - or, Bucky realises, nearly empty. Clint is sitting up on the back of the couch in the adjoining lounge, his feet on the cushions as he watches the muted television and eats out of bowl in his lap.

“You didn’t tell Steve,” Bucky says, and Clint nearly hits the roof.

“Jesus fuck!” he says, whirling around. “Christ, Barnes, make noise when you move, I’m begging you.”

“You’re wearing your aids.” Bucky checked. They’re a sleek metallic purple, easy to spot. 

“I need more than them to hear you creeping around,” Clint mutters, resettling himself on the back of the couch so he’s facing Bucky, feet bumping swinging gently below him. It looks like he’s eating cereal, of all things. “What didn’t I tell Steve about?”

Bucky gives him a speaking look. Clint stares back at him blankly, brow furrowed. Bucky sighs.

“I lost it today,” he says.

“What!” Clint squawks, breathing in sharply. “When?”

“...in the tunnel?” Now Bucky is confused, too.

“Oh, that? That’s not ‘losing it’, Barnes, jeez.”

“I froze, whatever,” Bucky corrects unwillingly. “Got ‘triggered’.” That last word he says through his teeth.

Clint blinks. “Yeah? I mean, yeah, you did. For like a minute. Then you were fine. You’re fine, right?”

“Yes?”  _ Fuck, Bucky, that’s not a question. _ “Yes.”

“I don’t get why you think I’d tattle on you for  _ that _ .”

_ Because for that minute I wasn’t doing my job _ . Bucky is always painfully aware of the things that he does with the Avengers are things he’s been allowed to do in exchange for forgiveness. The Avengers themselves don’t think of it like that, he doesn’t think, but Bucky knows the wider world does. They’re right to, probably. The things he did, it wasn’t him in control, but he sleeps better at night knowing the things he does here edge him further out of the red, one life at a time.

He’s not going to tell Clint that. though. He shrugs, heading for the cupboard. Late-night cereal sounds kind of disgusting, but at this point it’s a choice between eating that or eating something else raw.

“It was the rat, right?” Clint asks thoughtfully, through a mouthful. Bucky twitches. “Lots of people are scared of them.”

“I’m not ‘lots of people’,” Bucky returns. 

“Nah. You’re pretty brave,” Clint replies. Bucky, surprised, accidentally scrapes a spoon across his bowl with a sharp noise. “I don’t like snakes much.”

“Snakes can kill you.”

“So can rats. Wasn’t the plague still around when you were a kid?” Clint says, which is the worst attempt at an age-related joke Bucky has ever heard. 

“Not quite,” Bucky replies. “We did have rats, though. Used to hear ‘em in the walls at night, some of the nastier places we lived. In the war, too - anywhere you got food or bodies, you got rats. I never liked ‘em, even when I was little, but once you’ve had one run across your face while you’re bedded down asleep in the forest, you can’t help but hate them.”

Clint’s face is squashed up in disgust. “ _ Yuck _ .”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. His skin is crawling just thinking about it, though it’s not really the sight of them that gets to him.

In Azzano, there’d been dozens of them down in the cells. Then Bucky had been tied to a table for days while he was experimented on, forced to listen to the scratching and scrabbling right at the edge of his hearing between ‘treatments’, waiting for the feeling of sharp little teeth getting at his exposed skin while he couldn’t do anything but let it happen - 

“Still,” he says, swallowing. “Not something worth losing it over. That’s why I was surprised.”

Clint pushes himself off the couch, coming to lean on the breakfast bar across from Bucky. “The way I see it, nothing happened.”

“I,” Bucky replies. “You had to -”

“What? Watch your back?” Clint asks. “Hate to break it to you, but we’re partners. That’s kind of my job.”

“I wasn’t watching  _ your _ back.”

“For like ten seconds,” Clint scoffs. “Besides, that’s teamwork. None of us are at the top of our game one hundred percent of the time. Even for us, it’s only about ninety-two, ninety-three percent. So the rest of the time, you get your teammates to help you out.”

“I need to,” Bucky starts, and then stops himself with a mouthful of cereal, despite that he’s lost his appetite.

“What, be perfect all the time? Hate to break it to you, babe, but not even you can manage that.”

Bucky coughs. “Babe?”

Clint ignores this, though the tops of his ears pink up a little. “It was nothing. Don’t even worry about it. This way, when you have to cover my ass at some point, we’ll be even. Uh, not that you owe me - you know what I mean.”

“You mean  _ you’re _ not perfect?” Bucky says without thinking. Even as the words emerge from his mouth, the tone surprises him - he’s  _ flirting. _

Clint blinks, equally surprised, but Bucky won’t take it back. Fuck it, Clint called him babe, he can probably deal with a bit of flirting. 

“Maybe ninety-eight percent of the time,” he says after a moment. “That’s why I keep you around. The other two percent.”

Bucky’s relationship with his body and the things he can do is complicated by his history, but it’s still  _ his _ . He shrugs. “That’s what I’m good for.”

“That, and I trust you,” Clint continues. “So if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t.”

This time it’s Bucky who blinks, dumbstruck. “That’s…”  _ Not what I’m worried about _ . Except that it is, and he just didn’t realise, and Clint has just cut straight to the heart of the matter with that weird clear-headedness he always has for everyone except himself. 

“That seems like a bad idea,” Bucky says eventually.

“I don’t know,” Clint says, with an awkward little shrug of one shoulder. “It’s worked out for me one hundred percent of the time so far.”

Bucky just kind of...stares at him. Clint, whose ears are now definitely pink, doesn’t look away, though he fidgets a bit.

“Thanks,” Bucky says eventually.

“Don’t thank me,” Clint mutters immediately. “It’s the truth.”

Bucky reaches out and stops his hand where it’s restlessly stirring the leftover milk in his bowl. “I meant for in the tunnel.”

Clint looks down at Bucky’s fingers on his hand, then back to Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t move away. “You’re welcome?”

“I trust you, too,” Bucky says, and takes the smile this earns him like it’s sunshine.

 


End file.
